


In a Dragon's Breath

by Chatika (salamanderssmile)



Series: In fide aeternam [4]
Category: Dark Souls (Video Games)
Genre: Blood and Gore, Friendship/Love, M/M, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-22
Updated: 2017-08-22
Packaged: 2018-12-18 15:05:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11877063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/salamanderssmile/pseuds/Chatika
Summary: Legendary. Dragonslayers. The heroes of a war, with helmets that hid their faces behind metallic snarls - helmets that, to the beholder, consumed their hearts whole.





	In a Dragon's Breath

**Author's Note:**

> first part: don't let your dreams be memes  
> second part: [dissociates in gay]
> 
> being serious though, i did not have time to make as thorough a proof read as i always do, so i am extremely sorry for mistakes. i'll be fixing them in the following week.
> 
> i would also like to apologize for the huge wait, i didn't expect this part to be so big!

Fierce, the dragon roared, jaw filled with sharp teeth open wide and terrifying. Sulfur and ash in the air. It snapped its maw closed with a loud clack of bone on bone. It breathed in, deep, rumbling, preparing. Fire and dragons came hand in hand, Ornstein knew by now, by the scorched corpses left on their wake. He had a moment, a split second, a dragon’s inhale to attack. Barely enough to be ready, but he had to, he needed… He was too late. The maw opened, flames licking the ivory teeth, burning ruin to wash over him. Ornstein set his swordspear at the ready - he did not wield it as it should be, but he wielded it nonetheless. He could die, all warriors met an end, but he would not go gently. Not him. Not the knight of War himself. He owed Faraam that. Lightning coursed through his weapon, the heat bit his face. Ornstein narrowed his eyes. He would not show fear, he would not waver. Not for the life of him, not for his faith in his liege.

A fiercely colored bolt shot through the air into one of the dragon’s enormous black eyes. It screeched, jaw wide open with aimless flames, rolling over Ornstein’s armor without causing much more than discomfort, as the dragon thrashed in pain. Without a moment of hesitation, the knight charged forward, past the creature’s head, to stand by its neck. Holding onto the hilt and guard, he shoved the weapon, crackling with electricity, through its scales. They shattered like fine porcelain, the blade piercing the flesh underneath until thick, almost black blood poured from the wound, and the dragon’s painful screeches became breathless exhales. After one final jerk of its head, its weight fell dead, and it breathed no more. Ornstein pulled the weapon back, panting through gritted teeth, feeling his chest shiver with each inhale. He felt something touch his shoulder, and violently turned around, shoving whoever, whatever it was far from him. There stood his Prince, worry written on his face. Too soft eyes looked into his - his, narrowed in aggression, cold and sharp as a steel blade. He felt the distant urge to cry, yet his eyes ran dry.

“My knight, art thou injured?” Faraam’s voice was kind, so kind. It broke his knight’s heart.

“I am not, Your Grace,” Ornstein tried to to smile, but felt only his lips quiver, certain it looked more a grimace than anything. “For thou hast saved me.”

“I cannot lose a knight who looketh fiery death in the eyes with such poise.” The Prince smiled wide, arms wide open to gesture at the entire situation. “And I much less can lose a friend. Now come’st. The fight hath yet to end, my brave knight.”

Ornstein sighed, at last feeling his expression soften from violence. “Yes, Your Grace, and I shall be by thy side, cometh what may.”

“I know thou shalt.” Faraam’s smile was beautiful, radiant. It hurt his knight’s heart to look at it.

They ran away from the corpses together. Three, fallen to only two of them. Pride swelled in Ornstein’s chest, thinking of how his Prince was right. They would change the war, they would shape battles to come. In the distance, he saw a dragon fall with a single greatarrow protruding from its chest. The giant, the archer who didn't miss a shot, had to be. Ornstein knew not how to feel about him, not yet, but Faraam admired him, and the knight would gladly follow his liege’s judgement. He had learned, after all, in the time they had known each other, that the god of War cared little for origin or standing. Faraam judged people by their skill, especially at arms, and he would hold back no praise or pride for the target of his admiration simply because they were not of godkind. Ornstein found it to be one of the Prince’s most outstanding and endearing traits, of which he did not have few. Not in his knight’s eyes.

Another dragon fell from the skies, heavily injured by an arrow on its back. Faraam shouted a warcry, and Ornstein followed, though silent, as he charged at the creature. He would gladly follow his Prince into the maws of death itself, after all, so what was an injured dragon? In the distance, he heard a great string be pulled back with a whine. A slap to signify its arrow’s flight. A heavy  _ thuck _ and a draconic screech as it hit its target. Ornstein and Faraam ruthlessly pierced the jaw of the dragon in front of them, sending lightning through its veins as it convulsed to death. A loud crash sounded once more, and the knight knew the giant fell another.  _ Dragonslayers, _ Faraam’s voice whispered in his mind. His Prince did keep his promises.

 

Faraam was groggy, lazy from the early morning haze. The army had returned two days before from a successful campaign, and he had slept most of the day afterward. He and Ornstein had fell dozens of dragons, far more than usual due to the Hawkeye’s help. Faraam thought the giant one of the most incredible fighters he had ever met, together with his knight. The fact so many looked down on him irked the Prince, especially when the same people looked up to Lords who did nothing but sit pompous in gilded halls. Lords who had no right to judge the warriors in the field, who were only skilled in battle for as far as their baseless claims would take them. Faraam exhaled heavily in attempt to calm down. His sister always told him he was too easy to bother. She was not wrong.

He walked into the private dining hall of the royal family with gritted teeth. Awaiting him sat only his father, the others probably still resting. Bitterly, Faraam asked himself if he ever had the chance to do the same; most likely not. The Sun’s Firstborn had to bear too many duties to sleep in, even as a child. He sat by the Lord of Sunlight’s side by the table, back stiff and heart disgruntled. He did not start the day in a good mood, and he doubted it was to get any better during breakfast with his father. Faraam took a bite from the food in a manner almost recalcitrant, if that was possible. He did not look at his father, and knew his rudeness and impertinence were not going to be taken lightly.

“Gwynsen. I wish thee a good morning.” Gwyn’s voice was caring, but reproachful.  _ Behave _ , it said,  _ least thou art remembered of who weareth the king’s crown _ .

“And to thee, Lord, my father.” Faraam answered quietly.

“Thou seem’st subdued. Art thou afflicted by some sickness?” The Lord of Sunlight asked before biting into his food. 

“No, Lord, my father.” The Prince replied. “I am simply giving meaningless things too much thought.”

Gwyn laughed, a resounding noise coming deep from his chest. “Ah, yes. A great man’s burden.”

Faraam gave his father a weak smile in return before looking back down at his plate.

“I hope it cometh not as a bother then, should I ask thee of thy knight.” Gwyn said in genuine curiosity as his son’s head shot up to look at him. A buried, darker part of the Prince hissed, possessive; his father could be the Lord of Sunlight, but even he would not take his knight away.

“It is not. What desire’st thou to know of Sir Ornstein?” Faraam asked in turn, nonetheless more excited by the topic.

“I have heard many stories of the man, lately; all of them pray him to have great skill.” At hearing that, Faraam smiled bright with pride for his friend. “Yet I know little of him beyond such stories. I believe thou can’st tell me much more, can’st thou not?”

“Yes! Of course!” The Prince exclaimed, smile growing impossibly wide. “Sir Orsntein is a dear friend of mine, and an honorable, faithful knight. He is strong and fast and graceful, and one of the greatest warriors in thine army, most certainly. He faceth death with impassivity, and a lion’s presence can barely pose rivalry to his. The Silver Knights have him in high esteem, as well, and none would hesitate to follow his orders. He liketh rain and--” Faraam snapped his mouth shut; in his excitement, he had let it run unchecked. The Prince knew well that his father cared not for knight’s personhood. To Gwyn, Ornstein was a soldier, a commander, and not much else.

The Lord of Sunlight chewed slowly, looking somewhere between neutral and annoyed. After a long pause, during which Faraam found himself dizzy for forgetting to breathe, Gwyn opened his mouth to speak.

“It seemeth to me thou hast him in high regards, and dear to thine heart.” Faraam looked to the side, avoiding his father’s gaze in embarrassment. “I know thee to be a harsh judge of one’s worth. This knight must be impressive, indeed.”

“Yes, Lord, my father,” the Prince smiled fondly, still not looking at Gwyn. “He is.”

Gwyn smirked in response, the sort of expression that told Faraam his father knew something he didn't. At the best of times, it could be unnerving, but when it came to his knight, it made the Prince’s heart run. He excused himself, as respectful as he could be, before making haste for the courtyard where Ornstein would surely meet him. He wished for a friend, someone he could trust, to calm his anxiety.

He found Ornstein, already small Ornstein, with eyes a fraction wider as he looked up at the giant by his side. The Hawkeye sat in the courtyard with his knees drawn up to his chest, but still was enormous, especially by the knight’s side. Ornstein turned around to at look the Prince with narrowed eyes, yet something about his posture told Faraam of humor, so he smiled as the knight opened his mouth to speak.

“Your Grace, knew’st thou of Gough’s presence in our training today?” The giant looked between them with a curious expression on his face.

“I cannot say I did, my knight.” Faraam turned to the Hawkeye with a smile, waving a hand in greeting. “Wherefore art thou here, archer? It is hardly a shooting range!”

The giant blinked slowly, looking at the Prince, assessing him. After a moment, he smiled back. “I thought to watch you train. Your prowess is known to many, and I wish to know how to better help fight along with you.”

“Ah, what noble goals thine are.” Faraam said, sincerely - peripherally, he saw Ornstein look back at the giant’s face, the extent to which he had to look up almost comical. “Thou art most welcome, of course. I have great admiration for thee, thou shouldst know. I have never seen a better archer.”

“Oh…” The archer seemed at a loss of words in surprise, but Faraam could see his knight’s smirk in the corner of his vision. “It is a great honor to have thine attention “

“It is.” Ornstein voice cut through the air with its softness as he looked at the Prince. Faraam found himself momentarily mesmerized by the caring in his knight’s eyes, turning them liquid gold.

“May I watch you train, then?” The giant asked, breaking the god’s trance, making him gasp in surprise.

“Yes, of course. Shall we, Ornstein?” Faraam said in a single rush of breath, already walking towards the armory.

“Your Grace! Afore thou art too occupied.” The Hawkeye called, and the Prince hesitantly turned around to face him as his knight marched into the building holding their weapons. “My name. I forsook to tell thee. It is Gough.”

Faraam smiled up at him, bright sunshine on his face. “Call’st thou me Faraam, then, Gough.”

 

The hallways were cold on his skin, sweaty from training under the sun. The Prince was tired, but pleased. Gough was an intelligent warrior who noticed patterns with almost terrifying clarity. His deadpan humor, usually followed by a wide smile, also seemed to entertain Ornstein to the point of bringing out smiles of the knight’s own. And though Faraam would not tell anyone else, he also delighted in how the giant didn’t seem to give others more deference than they earned. The Prince had no doubt he was far too smart to not lower his head before a Lord, but also for the same quality, he would not give his respect for no reason. Still, the archer was kind, with a heart befitting his size. Faraam appreciated such softness as well. It was admirable in a warrior, and even more one treated so badly by most.

He entered his bedchambers to find Gwynevere sitting on a chair by the door. The Prince would have walked past her without noticing if she hadn't been singing. As it was, he turned to face her, and she stopped, rising to stand on her feet. The Princess had her auburn hair in a braid sweetly thrown over her shoulder. She smiled at her older brother as he looked at her with an eyebrow raised in question.

“Can I no longer wish to talk to my brother?” Gwynevere said, moving to stand by him as if to hug him, but stopping as she noticed the sweat. Faraam laughed.

“Of course thou can’st, sister mine.” He answered, stopping to take off his tunic. “But I hardly see the point of ambushing me in mine own chambers.”

Gwynevere sat herself on his bed, watching as her brother took off his boots before sitting heavily by her side.

“I am here for father hath inquired me on a most peculiar subject.” She said matter-of-factly.

“And how do father’s inquiries involve me?” Faraam asked, letting himself fall to lay on the bed. Gwynevere looked back at him before opening her mouth to speak.

“For the subject was thy knight.”

The Prince immediately sat up again at hearing her answer, face set in a scowl. His father’s interest in his knight was troubling, in his opinion. Though surely the Lord of Sunlight would not take Ornstein away from him. He couldn't. Except he could, and Faraam felt his heart start to race in his chest.

“I told him ‘He is my brother’s knight, not mine, Lord, my father.’” The Princess continued in the wake of her brother’s silence. “But he then said he had already asked the same of thee.”

“Yes.” Faraam said with a gasp for air. “I know not why he asketh after Ornstein so.”

Gwynevere hummed, tapping her chin delicately with a finger. “It is odd, indeed.” She said after a moment. “I had naught to tell him, of course, but found myself curious. So, brother, tell  _ me _ of him.”

“Sir Ornstein--” He began, but the Princess stopped him almost immediately, with a shake of her head and a splayed palm.

“I care not for his battle prowess, brother dear.” She told him. “He is thy friend, is he not? Then speak’st thou of thy friend to me.”

Faraam looked her wide eyed in surprise, but gave her a small smile after a moment. “Very well…” He began. “Ornstein liketh rain and sitting on the floor. He is a great climber, and I say it is because he needeth climb shelves should he wish to reach the tall ones. He fighteth with the grace and ferocity of a great feline. He is stoic, to a point where I worry, sometimes, that he is hurting and I know it not…”

Gwynevere cooed at him, touching her forehead with the back of her hand in a mockery of feeling faint. “He seemeth astounding! And what of his appearance?”

“Thou hast seen him afore this, Gwynevere, thou know’st well his countenance.” Faraam answered with skeptical eyes.

“Oh, but I never gave him much thought, my dear brother. He is thy knight, not mine.” She repeated to him what she had said to their father, and he sighed, conceding the point to her.

“He is beautiful.” He said sincerely, stating it as a fact. “Enough to be one of thy courtiers. That is…”

“Were it not for his scars?” Gwynevere asked, and her brother simply nodded at her. “They do seem dreadful. Though I have heard whispers saying his lips are tantalizing, indeed.”

Faraam frowned at her as she said it, not liking how she spoke of his knight. “He is not a toy, Gwynevere.” He said, unamused.

“My, my, but thou’rt jealous when it cometh to him, art thou not? Or is it simply because it is I? Worriest thou not, I have no intentions of stealing thy knight from thee.” Gwynevere fidgeted with her braid as she let herself fall backwards on the bed as Faraam had done earlier. “Then what is it that thou think’st maketh him worthy of being one of my courtiers?”

“His eyes.” The Prince answered after a moment of hesitation.

“Wherefore, brother dear?” She asked from where she lay on the bed.

“They are…” How could he explain it? “When the light shineth upon them, there is no shade of gold to rival theirs.”

“Indeed, a most remarkable feature.” Gwynevere replied, sitting up to kiss her brother on the cheek. “But I must leave now, to prepare for dinner. Forsake’st thou not a bath, brother. Thou dost so sorely need one.” She said as she left the room, closing the door behind her.

Faraam sighed, standing up to unlace his breeches and follow her advice. Sometimes he thought he would never understand her whims.

 

It had been a while, maybe months, since Gough started training with them, and though he did it far more sporadically than methodically, Ornstein was still fascinated by the giant. He was kind and keen in equal measure, and would no doubt be a great commander, if allowed to take on the role. The knight sighed, thinking of how that was unlikely at the best of times. Ornstein ran the towel over his hair to dry it, at least a little. He had just finished bathing for dinner and he already knew he would be late. He had been told his presence had been requested by Gwyn himself, and shivered to think of what would happen, should he not go. A knock on his door furthered his anxiety and he fumbled far more than normal to dress his breeches - the first ones he saw, as well, black leather ones to wear under armor. Ornstein opened the door abruptly, and on the other side saw three humans, two carrying an armor chest. He raised an eyebrow as he noticed their clothes, airy and white, denoted them as servants to Gwynevere’s courtiers.

“What is it?” Ornstein asked, crossing his arms across his bare chest.

“Sir Ornstein, it is to us a great honor to come to thee.” All three bowed, the two with the chest doing so surprisingly gracefully for their position. “We have been tasked with assisting thee prepare for the feast of this night.”

“Very well…” He replied with a frown, stepping aside to leave the doorway open. “You may come in.”

“Sir.” They all bowed again before walking in. Ornstein eyed the armor chest with curiosity. He could not think of a reason they would be carrying that, much less into his chambers. His confusion was not lessened when they opened it to reveal gilded golden plate, adorned with rubies, and a helmet of a lion’s visage. It was of incredible craftsmanship.

“Sir? May we help thee in donning thine armor?” One of the humans asked, and he shook his head, puzzled.

“Armor mine? This is not…” Ornstein began.

“My apologies, Sir, I see thou hast not been forewarned.” The same human interrupted. “Thou hast been gifted this suit, forged in fires come from the First Flame itself, by the Lord of Sunlight, for thy services in the battlefield.”

Ornstein’s eyes grew a fraction wider in awe and surprise. He didn't know how to react. A gift, and one so magnificent, from the Lord of Sunlight himself. It was breathtaking.

“Sir? May we help thee?” The human asked again, as one of the other three lifted the helmet in their hands.

“Very well.”

With the little ones’ help, he was dressed in moments. The armor was, indeed, tailored for him. It fit him better than any other he had ever wore. The pale shade of gold was subtle yet imposing. An armor for legends. He was about to put on the helmet when one of the humans stopped him, shaking their head in silence. They pointed at the back of their own head, then gestured at the helmet. Confused, Ornstein checked behind the stylized mane and saw a plume’s hook. His heart skipped a bit in happiness, and he smiled at the human in thanks. They all stood around as he took the favor Faraam gave him when he first became the Prince’s knight from where it lay on his bed and fit it on the helmet. It stood proudly, vivid red against pale gold. Ornstein at last donned it, and one of the humans produced a mirror for him to look at. Deep in the lion’s mouth, he could see his eyes, almost brown in the shade, as it snarled, somehow impassive, back at him.

The humans bowed and quietly left the room as he stood there, stunned. Faraam had been right after all. They  _ were _ becoming stuff of legends.

 

His father had not lied when he said there would be festivities, and not just dinner. It was almost a ball, with wide open spaces, and long tables filled with delicacies. Faraam could even see the Witches standing in a group, dressed in fine black velvet, golden trimming glinting on the light. He had no doubt even the Gravelord had been invited, though most likely refused to attend. Perhaps most interesting was the presence of humans. Not many, of course, really just a handful, but they were there. If his father’s gift to him - a suit of armor in dark shades of gold, heavy and in a motif of scales, or maybe feathers - hadn't made him overly curious about the night’s events, they would have. Faraam was glad his helmet, a threatening beak, hid his impatience from the world. He did not like being kept in the dark, and disliked even more when he was apparently the only one there.

“Know’st thou of the reasons for such grand festivities, Your Grace?” A familiar voice said behind him.

“I cannot say I do. What of thee?” Faraam turned to look at his knight, woefully unprepared for the sight that met him.

Golden and gilded and proud, there stood Ornstein, rubies shining on his chest, red plume vivid on his helmet. Faraam’s favor. His eyes hid in the shadows of a lion’s snarl, but they glinted when the light hit them just right. The armor fit him well, hugging his small waist, wide at the chest, accentuating his square shoulders. It was magnificent, elegant, and imposing.  _ A lion’s presence barely can barely pose a rival to his, _ Faraam heard himself say. He had been entirely, terribly correct. So distracting was the golden suit that the Prince didn't even think of why his father would have gifted  _ his _ knight with such a personally tailored set.

“Even the armor was an unexpected surprise, Your Grace.” The lion looked to the side and back to Faraam. “I thought… Thou had’st a hand in this. I am  _ thy _ knight, not thy father’s.”

“Thou art a great warrior.” Though his knight’s worries seemed similar to his, the Prince wanted to calm him, even if he could not calm himself. “Mayhap he hath noticed thou shouldst be a legend.”

“Oh…” Ornstein chuckled, quiet and breathless behind his helmet. “Thou still think’st so high of me. It is an honor.”

“My knight,” The Prince laid his hand on the knight’s arm as he spoke. “Thou are most deserving of all praise we give thee.”

Ornstein laid his own hand on top of Faraam’s, letting it linger there before gently prying it away. They let their fingers remain tangled for a moment, hanging between them, before the knight crossed his arms. The Prince didn't understand exactly why, but it sent a jolt of electricity not unlike lightning up his spine. They stood there, in silence, in front of each other, until colossal steps sounded from the entrance. Looking over Ornstein’s helmet while the knight himself turned around, the two watched as Gough entered the salon, doors just big enough for him to fit through them. His armor was new, as well. Decidedly giant in style and make, the materials were of high quality, with a pauldron of dragon bone and a medal on his chest emblazoned with Gwyn’s own crest. It was one enormous symbol of honor, of status, and not all whispering nobles in Anor Londo could change that. The giant’s helmet also covered his entire face, keeping it from sight and inspiring a sense of awe. Faraam waved to Gough as the Hawkeye walked to a corner, and needed not even speak to prompt Ornstein to go to him alongside the Prince.

“Gough!” The knight sounded happy behind the golden snarl. “We knew not thou wert to come!”

“The invitation was… a surprise.” The giant nodded. “Even I did not foresee it.”

“It seemeth this night shall be one of unexpected occurrences.” Faraam said, somber. Something was to happen, something important, and his father wanted as big an audience as possible.

“Your Grace? Art thou well?” The gentleness in Ornstein’s tone brought the Prince out of his thoughts.

“Yes. I am only giving thought as to what my father could be planning.” He answered.

“Worriest thou not, Your Grace.” Said Gough, voice like a port in a storm. “Whatsoever may happen, I and Sir Ornstein are by thy side.”

Faraam smiled behind his helmet, and looked between the other two men with fondness. The archer was right, of course; he had his friends, no matter what happened. He felt the back of Ornstein’s fingers brush his, and loosely he tangled them, when they heard his father speak.

“Honored guests! Members of the court! Warriors of mine army! Sister of my soul!” The Lord of Sunlight’s voice cut through the loud chatter in the salon, resounding and clear. “I have asked your presence here in this night for a most grand occasion. The tides of battle are turning towards us, this war is reaching its climax! And we… we are victorious time and again!”

Gwyn paused, letting the cheers prompted by his speech die down before starting again. “And though so many have fought, and so many have died, and we have sacrificed so much for this…! Four esteemed warriors here present were most important in accomplishing what we have.” Whispers ran through the hall as the Lord once again paused dramatically. “To them, we all owe greatly. My friend, and great general, Havel the Rock!”

Faraam cocked his head; then that was the reason for the humans. Did his father really call for such a congregation for him to show to all how shiny his gifts could be?

“The one who striketh dragons from the sky, Hawkeye Gough!” The court turned their eyes to the giant at the Lord’s gesture. In the corner of his vision, he saw Ornstein pat the archer’s knee in reassurance. “Mine own son, Gwynsen, Prince of Sunlight, god of War, of whom I am so very proud!”

Faraam could see his father smile, genuinely; he wasn't lying. His stomach coiled in anticipation and happiness and anxiety. Surely all would end well.

“And the man who inspired a Lord, my son’s dear knight, Sir Ornstein!”

The fingers around Faraam’s hand squeezed tightly for a moment as Ornstein stepped closer to him. The Prince’s chest was swelling with pride for his best friend, and he smiled, though none could see it. He wanted to hug him, celebrate, but he couldn't, not yet.

“Come, and stand before me, brave four warriors.” Gwyn gestured to ground in front of him, as he was on a slightly elevated stand. Slowly, to the clamor of the court, the four men he called for made their way to him. To the Lord’s right kneeled Gough, and by him the human, Havel. At the Rock’s other side kneeled Ornstein, graceful and golden. To his father’s left, last to kneel, was Faraam. For the first time that night, he was happy, and proud, and nothing more.

“You, who have turned massacres into victories, are now the ones we honor. As no others have given as much to this war as you have, I bequeath to each of you a title.” The Lord of Sunlight’s voice silenced the uproarious hall with its somber tone. “You are now dragonslayers, and may all know that!”

By his side, Faraam heard Ornstein’s sharp inhale, and felt himself dizzy with pride. He had to resist the urge to take his knight’s hands in his, hug him until he complained. The Prince didn't know so much glee could fit inside his heart.

“Havel, thou art my general and friend.” Gwyn paused, and Faraam felt his heavy on his shoulder. “And Gwynsen, thou art my Heir and beloved firstborn child.

“However, I have nothing more to offer you, though you are dear to my heart.” The Lord of Sunlight said in a sad tone, his hand leaving his son’s shoulder. “But thee, Sir Gough, I make of thee a knight, and give thee the command of an elite detachment of archers, to train and lead as thou desire’st.”

Faraam could only see his father’s feet, but it was clear to him that Gwyn leaned down to turn Ornstein’s visor up, to look at the Lord. Cold started seeping into the Prince’s veins, somewhere between fear and anger. He wanted to run, and he wanted to stay.

“And to thee, Sir Ornstein, Golden Knight, I give the position of general of my army, to stand by my and my son’s side.” Ornstein’s intake of breath sounded like a hiss through the sharp teeth of his helmet. Gwyn stepped back and away from the knight before speaking again. “And to the both of you I grant the highest standing a knight of Anor Londo could have. To be Knights of mine own, the first and only Knights of Gwyn. To that end, I offer you the greatest gift I have to give: a part of my soul.”

Hushed whispers and surprised gasps swept through the salon. Were it simply Ornstein, it would be a celebration: a most gallant Silver Knight ascending from his position as a foot soldier to a venerated hero. Gough’s similar ascension made it tricky for them. Faraam thought them idiots who knew nothing of battle, yet tried to judge the worth of a warrior by his kinship. In that moment, when his heart felt ready to hop out of his chest in sadness - because his father did, in fact, take his knight away, just as he suspected - he despised them. He despised them more and more with every hot tear spilled in the safety of his helmet. His chest wound tighter, coiled rawness, as he choked down sobs. He was to be alone again, was he not? Faraam couldn't hear his father’s words over the rush of blood in his ears, but he could feel the glow and power of his soul. He could feel, if distantly, Ornstein shiver as it ate through his veins. Faraam knew the feeling well. The skin feeling tighter and tighter, the strength coiling in your heart until it burst in waves of heat down your limbs. The feeling of indescribable power. The Prince shook in his efforts to remain silent and composed as the Lord of Sunlight took his knight - his friend - farther away from him with every moment. Faraam tried to block out the world, mute the words he knew Gough and his father were speaking, drown out the noise with his own heartbeat. Still, he could not block out his knight’s voice, not while he could still call him that.

“Your Lordship…” Ornstein sounded unsure, uneasy. “Thou said’st I am allowed any boon I may desire. I know… I hope it cometh not as an offense to thee, Your Lordship, but I wish to remain thy son’s knight. I wish to fight alongside him still.”

“Art thou denying to serve as mine own knight?” The atmosphere in the hall was tangible, and Faraam’s heart seemed to be dedicated to climbing out through his throat. His knight, so loyal and true… He truly did not deserve him.

“No, I am not. To serve thee is the greatest honor I could possibly receive.” Ornstein’s voice was firm then, leaving no trace of doubt to be interpreted. “But I am sworn to thy son. I wish not to break my oaths.”

The whispers of the salon changed from mildly scandalized to almost cooing. Oh, the knightly honor, their sense of duty, the Golden Knight’s faith. Faraam had to breathe deeply to resist the instinct to demand their silence.

“I see.” Gwyn replied to the knight at last. “Thou art as faithful and honorable as the stories say. Very well, I grant thee thy boon, to remain as my son’s knight. Be thou certain, Sir Ornstein, to not bring me regrets for this.”

“Never, Your Lordship.” The lion answered, somber and serious and Faraam could dance, spin in happiness. Tears threatened to spill forward once more, but he held them back.

With one thunderous clap, the Lord of Sunlight declared the feast and festivities truly started. Music began playing, food was served, drink was poured, and the four dragonslayers rose to join the guests. Or three of them did, as Faraam, though in his imposing, heavy suit of armor, slinked away, to the balcony. His heart felt frail and mercurial, like a young bird, and didn't the helmet befit him, now. He took it off as he sat on the floor, leaning against the railing with heavy breaths. He was relieved, yes, he was certain of that. But he was also tired, exhausted to the point of sadness. Faraam brought a knee close to his chest to lean his head against it. He knew not what he wanted, and much less why or who he wanted it with. He wished to run from the confusion of his feelings, and he wished to stay and unravel it. Faraam thought of his knight; elegant, golden, imposing Ornstein; and thought that, whatever he was doing, he did not want to do it alone.

But the solitude did give him sweet respite, allowed him to take his breath, compose himself. Very slowly, the night breeze soothed him, lulled him to a state of almost sleep. He finally felt his muscles, his entire body, unwind from the tense tightness his anxiety kept them in. Faraam was barely conscious when warm metal touched his face, a hand cupping his cheek.

 

“Your Grace? Wishest thou to go to thy chambers?” Ornstein said, sounding impossibly gentle, even to his own ears.

“No, not yet.” Faraam replied, opening his eyes to look at the knight.

Ornstein smiled at him, hoped it conveyed the fondness he felt when he looked at Faraam’s drooping eyes and sleepy pout. He resisted the urge to caress the Prince’s cheek, taking his hand away as soon as he could will himself to. Ornstein sat by his side, head shyly leaning on a pauldroned shoulder, snarling helmet on the stone bench not far away. His other hand held a sweet - a crumbly sweet crust covered in raspberries and syrupy sauce. He had eaten one, and thought it so good he wished Faraam to try it too. Except he could not find the Prince anywhere inside the salon. So Ornstein brought it with him to the balcony, knowing his liege would be there.

“Thou shouldst taste this.” The knight said, holding it out towards Faraam.

“Did’st thou…” The Prince’s eyes were silvery in the moonlight as he looked at his friend, expression so open Ornstein wanted to hug him tight and keep him there. “I am so grateful to thee, my knight.”

Though Faraam took the sweet and slowly attempted it eat it without causing much of a mess, Ornstein knew he did not refer only to it. His dear Prince feared being left alone and lonely once more. Not that Ornstein would ever willingly leave him, even if he didn't have such fears. But they were as small thorns that buried themselves deep into Faraam’s heart long before they met. If nothing, the knight wished his liege to know of his loyalty, of his faith, that he would never abandon him, given the chance.

“It  _ is  _ delicious.” The Prince’s voice startled him out of his thoughts.

“I am glad it pleaseth thee, Your Grace.” Ornstein sounded quiet even to his own ears.

“So doth thy company.” Faraam’s reply was but a whisper. “Know’st thou of a way for I to repay thee?”

Deep down, Ornstein wanted to beg.  _ Leave’st me not ever, _ he wanted to say. Wanted it said against the Prince’s lips. Yet, as natural as his head felt on Faraam’s shoulder, it was not his place. It would never be. The music from the salon grew louder, more rhythmic. The tune gave Ornstein a way out, to appease his heart and not pour it bleeding from his chest.

“If thou art so intent, Your Grace…” The knight said, lips curled upward, as he raised to a stand. “May I have this dance?”

Faraam looked baffled, wide eyed and blinking rapidly, mouth parted. But he took the hand offered nonetheless, stepping into his knight’s personal space as they bowed in greeting. At first, Ornstein lead. Their pace was intense and swift of feet, demanding in the way he waited until the very last second for turns. He danced as he fought; agile, relentless, and somehow enticing to one who watched. But the music went on, and in one step, the grab of a wrist, a turn, suddenly the Prince had the reigns. Ornstein melted at his pace, mellow and sweet and fluid, clearly meant for show in its form. A courtier’s dance, made more majestic by actual Lordship. 

“How dost thou find me so easily, every single time?” Faraam asked during a lull in the music, voice low and soft.

“It is simply natural.” The knight started, tilting his head slightly. “After all, is it not the cat that hunteth the bird?”

For a moment, the Prince frowned in confusion, until Ornstein gestured with his chin to the helmets, side by side on the stone bench. The lion’s snarl and the beak’s impassivity. The joke dawned on Faraam and he gasped in realization before laughing. His knight watched in wonder, feeling as though his chest was melting, as he rasped ugly, half-silent cackles in genuine amusement. Ornstein thought himself silly, so very silly, but he could not stop.

“Indeed. It is.” The Prince said as his laughter subdued, smile still bright in his face.

Ornstein smiled back, however small it was. He worried, sometimes, that his stoicism would hurt Faraam, but the Prince somehow saw even his most subtle expressions, read him like a book. The music came to a close and Ornstein stepped away, only for Faraam to hold his wrist, beg with a pout and droopy eyebrows for another dance.

“Prithee, dance’st thou with I once more.” 

Ornstein sighed, theatrical suffering. “Oh, I am loathe to deny thee anything.”

One dance, and then one more, and another, and… He lost count. Ornstein didn't know for how long they danced, two fools on a balcony following a distant rhythm. They collapsed, tired and exhilarated on the bench, knocking down their helmets carelessly, chuckling at the clanging. They faced each other, breathing heavy. The knight could feel his face for once split on a grin; it pulled on his scars, though it wasn't painful. He didn't count the time, could have spent a century looking at the Prince’s eyes, at the Prince’s angular face.

“I am so glad to know thee.” Faraam said, and Ornstein didn't know how to answer, eyes growing softer. “I know not if there is any other I could ever understand so.”

Ornstein wanted to scream, wanted to tell the Prince that his loneliness did not define him, that there were entire nations for him to meet, that Ornstein himself was not anymore special than any other Silver Knight. But his treacherous heart took pleasure in knowing Faraam liked him  _ better, _ that in a world of people,  _ he _ was the Prince’s favorite. The battle waged in his mind confused, even annoyed him, so for once, he simply did as he wanted, cupping Faraam’s warm cheek with a gold-clad hand.

“Thou shouldst not think so little of thyself, or the nations thou art yet to see.” The knight said, leaning in just so. For emphasis, he told himself. “Though I am, nonetheless, quite flattered.”

“Mine own self I know well, and I know not nations.” The Prince leaned in as well, hand seeking the other’s still resting on the bench, fingers entangling. “But I know thee.”

They were close. The tips of their noses brushed, their breaths mingled between them, their gaze roamed from eyes to lips to eyes. Ornstein knew he could lean in, take what he wanted, what he knew they both wanted. And, oh, how very dearly he wanted. Fervently, even, as the heat in his chest told him, and the way his skin seemed to tingle at the thought supported. Ornstein wanted, wanted,  _ wanted… _ And nature demanded they grew closer, in search of heat or affection or something else. He had but a moment, a split second, a dragon’s breath… He made his decision. He closed his eyes, shut them tight as he kissed the Prince’s cheek with lingering lips, yearning to feel more of the warm skin. But he pulled back, stood up after picking up his helmet, donning it in hopes the Lion’s maw could consume Ornstein’s desire and leave him empty.

“I shall take my leave, Your Grace.” He affirmed. Faraam, unlike himself, was very good at saying ‘No’.

He walked briskly away from the balcony, pace turning into a run. The hallways seemed all the same, and none familiar, the ruckus of the still ongoing festivities rang, confusing. The blood rush in his ears disoriented him, his racing heart seemed to not belong himself. Ornstein did not when he stopped, only that he did, at some point. He sat against a wall, chest begging for a sob, eyes trying for a single tear. But he had none to give. Like blood from a stone, he needed not the helmet to seem unfeeling. But he wasn't, not really. Ornstein didn't truly know exactly what he was anymore, standing on the line that defined godhood, neither on this side nor the other. No, he snorted, he knew what he was. Foolish. Falling for a god would not lead to happy endings. Not for him, nor any other who was not deific, either. In that knowledge, Ornstein found surprising comfort. Fate would serve as his denial, so he did not need to ask. He did not need to tell. He would take training and sunshine and drizzles and weave them with friendship, and call it enough. And so it would be.

**Author's Note:**

> sometimes u gotta rate stuff with mature and u just know someone, somewhere, will have their hopes shattered. i say that bc i've been that someone before.
> 
> alternative titles of the wip:  
> Small Man Only Makes Big Friends  
> Is Gwyn Hitting On His Wannabe Son-In-Law?  
> Furry dissociates, what happens next is heartbreaking


End file.
